


Love Does Not Exist Here (In This Garden There's No Feeling)

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Series: Show That Love's Worth Running To [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotions, Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Heartbeats, Jack and the Cuckoo Clock Heart AU, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Angst, Oneshot, Possibly Pre-Slash, Series, Spells and Enchantments, possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: "Firstly, never touch the hands of your heart. Rule number two, keep your temper under control. And last, but not least, the most important rule: whatever else you do, never fall in love..."~Jaskier was born with a broken heart, a heart that's now attached to a slowly moving clock magically etched into his chest. He can't grow angry; he can't love.These are the rules of his heart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Show That Love's Worth Running To [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774585
Comments: 16
Kudos: 206





	Love Does Not Exist Here (In This Garden There's No Feeling)

**Author's Note:**

> I've only seen the series and only read a bit of the books (though I'm slowly trying to read more of it!). I'm excited about this AU and plan to make more in this universe, so let me know what you think!
> 
> I don't know how familiar anyone is with Jack and the Cuckoo-Clock Heart but this is very vaguely based on that idea. There should be a movie of it on Netflix somewhere. It has a rather interesting style and soundtrack, so feel free to check it out, but know that this probably isn't going to follow the actual plot much at all. I just stole the rules and general idea, haha.
> 
> Another thing-- I labeled this with the relationship because that is ultimately where this goes (at least, in the rest of the pieces I plan to put out) but it can also definitely be read as gen, if you'd like. 
> 
> Also, uh, let's pretend clocks are a thing in this world. I'm not sure how accurate that is but, like, they have magic. Let's pretend they also have clocks.

**“Each beat of your heart is a small miracle, you know, so don't get carried away.”**  
― Mathias Malzieu, _La Mécanique du cœur_

The beating of a heart should be a certain thing. It should not know hesitation or reluctance, fear or misguided murmurs. A heart, despite all poetry and prose, should never truly falter.

And few hearts do. In fact, nearly all hearts are steadfast in their beating, their watch over time. Their promises in the shape of a pulse.

All hearts, that is, but one.

Jaskier’s heart slipped away as easily as his new one slipped in.

Young, cradled by blankets and his mother’s too tight hold, too weak to lift his head— too young to remember why he’d need to. His chest had been full of feathers, of webs sticking to his ribs each time he tried to breathe. He didn’t know why his heart had skipped so many beats when he’d play, or why it’d feel like a cool hand inside his chest late at night. All he knew were the hushed words the hired mage told his mother, her dried lips cracking with each muttered sound.

 _“A hole,”_ she’d said, and he’d made no sense of it. _“And it’s nothing my magic can heal completely.”_

Later, his mother would make up stories and say his heart just couldn’t handle all the love he’d have to give. Later, his mother would put a hand to his cheek and say he was such a special boy.

But, that night, she’d made a strange sort of wailing noise. That night, her eyes had grown hard and she’d demanded magic to do something.

And, so—

The mage's eyes shifted to the clock in the corner of the room, counting down the minutes like the beating of a better heart. And her eyes, a brown so pale it was nearly gold, softened in the places Jaskier’s mother wouldn’t.

 _“Stand back,”_ she’d said. _“Let me try.”_

Warm hands pushing Jaskier’s shirt up. Warm hands pressing gently over his chest.

Something warmer, still, soaking into his skin, not unlike the times his mother would pour water over his head in the bath. But this warmth lingered like water couldn’t, tracing shapes he wouldn’t see until the morning.

Slowly, the heat began to burn. Jaskier began to struggle, whimpering and crying.

 _“Listen, boy. I have something important to tell you to make sure you don’t lose your heart forever. There are three rules you must always obey.”_ The mage’s voice was certain, steady. Somehow, Jaskier let his teary eyes focus on her. _“Firstly, never touch the hands of your heart. Rule number two, keep your temper under control. And last, but not least, the most important rule— whatever else you do, never fall in love.”_

The words made no sense then. But, then, he had been too overwhelmed with the light suddenly carving into his chest to notice. Warm as a knife from the fire, certain as any heart should be.

He’d shut his eyes against it. 

It would all make sense later— or, at least, that’s what they promised as he fell asleep.

* * *

_“Firstly, never touch the hands of your heart…”_

The wise old hands of that buttercup-yellow marking, that gilded etching into his skin. The moving hands that ticked off seconds each time his heart gave a steady beat, the magic of the clock carved into his chest tugging his heart into the rhythm it should have been making all along.

And— don’t touch those hands, Jaskier. The pointed hands whose sharpened edges shift across his skin like strangers. There’s no passion in their spinning but, at least, they make for interesting conversation before and after sex. Enough gold to catch anyone’s eye from beneath a barely buttoned shirt, eyes that flash up to his with the kind of curiosity he’s come to recognize as a prelude to a good night, but not enough for anyone to recognize the magic. Not enough for anyone to think it’s anything other than a flashy charm made up for a flashy bard.

_“…Rule number two, keep your temper under control…”_

And that’s just fine because the world Jaskier had before he was a bard was a world of good sense and manners, a world of soft words and pleasant tones. He’d been taught to hold his tongue long before he was taught to care for his precious clock heart, long before he knew how heated blood strained the magic— before he knew what it was like to choke on his own hatred, betrayed by the very heart that made him hate.

_“… And last, but not least, the most important rule— whatever else you do, never fall in love.”_

Because, the mage prophesied, his heart-hands wouldn’t understand the ways in which his heart would begin to pound. The big hand— counting down minutes, days, years of his life— would spin too fast, trying to keep up with the relentless emotion. And those years of his life would become simple seconds; those seconds would become mere moments before the clock gives in, before Jaskier’s heart gives out.

Though he abides by them, Jaskier’s always hated these rules. Couldn’t the mage or his mother ever imagine he’d be this whirlwind of emotion, this hurricane of anger and love and fear and more? Now, always waiting for his chance at life— always knowing the hands of his heart hold him back with a bruising burning grip.

No, no one thought of the lead up to the exploding wreckage he’s told his heart could be. Feeling human wasn’t part of their rulebook, their guides.

No anger, no love— then, he wonders, what is left? 

One day, he leaves home but doesn’t scream on his way out about the unfairness of his heart. One day, he leaves home but doesn’t cry about the loved ones he’s leaving behind.

As he walks away, his heart beats firmly; his clock moves at a stable pace, never once tempted to pick up the speed.

A bard with a heart made of magic and lost time.

It’s always the cliches that cause the trouble.

* * *

Jaskier sits in the corner of some half-forgotten tavern, the hard wooden floor the only sure thing about this place as he leans against dusted walls and breathes the scent of mold growing beneath the tables. It’s not the grandest way to begin an adventure but, then, adventures rarely know what beginnings should look like, anyway.

His lute fits neatly in his hand, the strings a constant companion as he considers the crowd before him. No one considers him in return, too busy with their drinks and stories and food. He may as well be a spider fashioning a web from across the room with all the inattention they’re granting him.

As it is, there is a spider across the way, a rather large black dot scurrying into the cracks as if sensing his gaze. And besides the spider, there’s a—

Well. Best not to contemplate the scary stranger staring sullenly at his own hands. Such wonderings only distract him from his playing, after all.

The songs he sings are nothing but words he pinned together on the road, dust in his lungs and under his nails as he tested rhymes and rhythms plucked out of the various conversations he passed by. Someone muttering about a monster here, someone joking about a certain spell there— it all came together into something as quotidian as this. A good tune for meaningless words.

Once upon a time, he imagined he could sing of grander things. Of adventure and heartbreak and passion and loss and love and— and those are only dreams. Blind fantasies pressed against his skull, his heart tittering with tick-tock sounds.

No tears in the writer and there can be no tears from the listener, or so he’s heard. And how can a man forbidden to cry write of such things?

 _“You think you’re safe without a care…”_ He sings instead, drawing out the sounds into tremolos and riffs, playing with the music as if to hide the foolishness of his words. 

It doesn’t work.

“Abort yourself!” They shout, tossing bread and other stale things with sour glares. 

As one roll hits a bit too close to his groin for comfort, Jaskier’s heart beats a little faster.

“Oh, I’m so glad I could just bring you all together like this,” he snaps back. “Unbelievable.”

In the back of his mind, he imagines a world where he can say more scathing words, where he can lift the projectiles and toss them back with a sneer of his own. He’d snap and he’d bite and he’d smile while doing it, blood hot in his veins and eyes bright with the fight.

His heart, though, has already begun to snap against his skin in unsteady beats. His clock seems to tick louder than before.

Biting hard on his tongue, Jaskier bends, looking away as his audience finds more entertainment with one another. Everyone has something better to do than to listen to the bard.

Everyone but one.

That stranger in the back— the one with steady hands and a certain gaze, with a stillness Jaskier's pacing heart can only dream of capturing. He’s still not glanced at Jaskier— not even during that particularly eye-catching lean against the posts— but perhaps that’s best. He’s the only one who hasn’t thrown food or an insult and, so, Jaskier takes a breath and tries his luck.

“Love how you just sit in the corner and brood…”

And so the conversation begins— if it can be a conversation, he supposes. Words are exchanged and they make some sense, but Jaskier taps his fingers on the table and hopes for more. 

He hopes he’s right when he says he knows who this man is.

“You’re the Witcher,” he says, nearly breathless. Breathless because he’s heard the rumors, he’s heard the tales. He’s heard the nighttime stories, the threats to children to behave lest _he_ come. “Geralt of Rivia.”

And he’s also heard that Witchers can’t feel.

If his heart could do more than beat and threaten, Jaskier’s certain it would stop.

He plays it off as some grand revelation later, some way to gather songs and stories and more. Heartbreak and death and heroics— those things he’s dreamed of but never felt, heard of but never seen in his own life. He says these to the Witcher as if they mean anything.

The punch to the gut is enough to confirm his plans.

In the past, traveling with other humans has been less than ideal. Someone always falls in love. Someone always starts a fight. Jaskier’s felt the burning in his chest as girls leaned close, confessing their affection with fluttering lashes and a hand tangled in his hair; he’s felt the fire and smoke of fury as others, still, have tried to steal his music, have tried to take his lute.

Humans, he's found, are a mess. They’re the knot of emotions he was taught to ignore, the passion he never had time to retrieve. They’re explosives in a box placed too close to his barely sparking heart, waiting to catch flame just to bring him down. Every lover, every enemy, everyone who ever met him— they’ve all been nothing but a mess he’s had to avoid.

But a Witcher… a man who’s been said not to feel…

Jaskier plays it like he’s doing this for the songs. He wonders what Geralt would do if he knew, really, he was simply attaching to the one person in this world who’d understand the emptiness in the place he should have a heart. 

All his life, Jaskier’s traded love for convenience and passion for pick-ups. This change from human to monster is nothing compared to the sting of all that.

* * *

But, then, Geralt is no monster.

Perhaps, on some level, Jaskier knew. Perhaps that’s why he smiled so grandly when Geralt called him near, why he still followed despite the blossoming bruise across his gut. Perhaps, despite the rumors he kept in his head, he knew Geralt was more than that.

He knew. And he knew he didn’t want that part to be true.

But then they’re tied together, back to back, and Jaskier’s had more bruises added to the collection. They’re in trouble, their lives in the hands of those who beat them, and Geralt is telling them to leave Jaskier alone.

“Leave off,” he says, despite his own cuts and scars. “He’s just a bard.”

And this is how it’s all undone.

Those lies and those rumors and those horrible names he’d let flit through his head when he saw the Witcher— when he saw Geralt of Rivia. Those stories he’d hidden from as a child, those monsters in the shadows in the shape of a man too large to be a man, a man too twisted to be anything other than _wrong_. It’s all unraveled in a few careless words, in the memory of Geralt watching him walk beside him with nothing more than a faint annoyance— nothing more than a hit he deserved, a reminder that _butcher is right_ just when Jaskier was beginning to think it wasn’t.

Because this man tied behind him— this man who’d offered answers for Jaskier’s less stupid questions, who’d said to _leave off he’s just a bard_ …

This is the proof of unfair lies and a shattering of Jaskier’s more shameful beliefs.

And if those things can be shattered— if stories as bloodsoaked and certain as those can break— why can’t he? Why can’t his own curse fall?

He’s shaking as he shouts, spitting at the elf for beating a bound man, for hiding, for being cowards. He doesn’t mean to scream the words but they come out ragged from a throat that aches from the sudden exclamation, the burst of emotion it’s never felt before. His temper tears from him like a coin dropped from an overstuffed purse, finally shining for the first time.

Even when something ties tight across his chest, even when his ears are filled with nothing but the _tick-tick-tick-tick-tick_ of a heart gone wrong, he still snarls and laughs when Geralt’s head sends the elf staggering back. He still spits names with a tongue hot from violence. He still ignores the way his heart pulls into his mouth and warns him not to go too far.

It’s only the entrance of some supposed king of elves that grants Jaskier time to breathe, time to ease his heart. As he gasps, he imagines the tastes of smoke on his tongue, magic and chaos overworking itself to keep up with the fire in his chest.

Oh, and then there’s Geralt once again telling them to let Jaskier go, that he’s human. And the elves are speaking against the history he’s been taught, more deceptions crumbling in his head to form ash that stings his eyes and heart. He could scream. He could cry.

He can’t do anything without the magic in his chest erupting and taking him down with all these false truths, too.

There’s talk of death, Geralt accepting his own with a sharp-edged smile in his words. Filavandrel’s speech plays in Jaskier’s head too loudly for him to truly hear it all.

Perhaps they die here. Perhaps this is the end.

Jaskier shuts his eyes, feeling smaller than he ever has before. The size of a clock, a watch at the end of a string, tugged back and forth by the stories he’s ignored and the stories he’s been foolish enough to believe.

Through it all, his heart struggles to find a steady beat, caught somewhere in his throat, strangled by his fury. Perhaps his heart will kill him before a blade ever touches his skin.

And, then, the elf king lets them go.

* * *

Jaskier’s never let anyone know the true meaning of his heart; he’s not the kind to sit around and lament something he knows can’t change, to watch fascination fade into pity and horror. More often than not, he leaves the truth behind for another weak lie in another one-night-lover’s head. He tries not to go to bed by himself most nights, pretending to be asleep as someone’s arm curls almost protectively over his chest, his ears filled with their tender breathing rather than the ticking thing he calls a pulse.

It’s easier when someone else’s heart is around for him to hear. But witchers’ hearts beat slow, and Geralt sleeps on the other side of the fire that night.

“You’re leaving at the next town,” Geralt says as if saying it a thousandth time will change anything. He’d tried to make Jaskier leave after their walk away from the elves, and he’s spent the rest of the day saying different versions of the same thing. “I don’t travel with anyone.”

“And, trust me, my dear witcher, neither do I,” Jaskier says, sitting up in his newly purchased bedroll and turning to face Geralt. “Too messy and, really, a waste of good conversation. But I’ve had a better time with you today than I’ve had in all my travels with anyone else. And that’s saying something when it comes from a bard, let me tell you.”

Geralt makes a grunting sound, something Jaskier’s quickly recognizing as his go-to response.

“You were lucky to not have been killed today,” Geralt says. “And there’s still a chance for your wounds to worsen.”

“What? This?” Jaskier points at the faint bruise near his temple where the creature’s weapon had initially struck. “I’ve had worse, you know. Far worse and far more often. Give me some credit, really. I may look pretty and delicate but I’ve got just as much muscle and bravado as any warrior, and, besides—”

“And how about your heart?” Geralt asks as if it’s as simple as that. “I heard it faltering today, and you were barely struck.”

Jaskier’s hand reaches for his chest, his palm flat against his shirt. The clock— cooled and calmed by the distance put between Jaskier and his anger— ticks steadily against his skin.

The weight of the seconds wasted by blind fury and rage sit heavy in his gut, reminding him of just how fragile this thing in his body is.

“My, Geralt, worrying about my heart on the first day?” If he were sitting close enough, he’d bat his eyes. “I knew you were a hero, but to be such a gentleman? I may have to rewrite that song to include your chivalry and valor. Tell me, do you think Sir Geralt has a nice ring to it? Or would you prefer to be described more as a roguish noble run off to save the world?”

The rambling does its job and Geralt looks away, his lips curled in what Jaskier pretends is a smile but knows is a scowl.

“If you die, bard, know I’ve warned you,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t need your blood on my hands.”

“Nor should you expect it.” Jaskier tips his head to the side. He puts on his favorite grin, lopsided and full of teasing.

He keeps his hand against his heart.

He’s known the rules for nearly as long as he’s known his name, the sound of them dancing across his skin and mind. Like a game designed for him to lose, like the mocking kiss of a blade to his throat.

He’s always known that, when his heart finally stops, it will be no one’s fault but his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, thank you for reading!! This is unbeta'd so please forgive any mistakes. I was simply too excited to wait before posting it, haha. You're all also welcome to come say hello at my [Tumblr](https://hum-my-name.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/so_spaced__out_) !!
> 
> I do want to build this into a series of oneshots for this world, so let me know if you'd at all be interested in that. I have a few ideas already outlined but if you wanted to send prompts or comments to either of those profiles above (or leave them in the comments below!) I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Thanks again for reading <3 Have a fantastic day/night!


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